


Not Easily Broken

by GretaOto



Series: A Cord Of Three Strands [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Concussions, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-OT3, Rescue, Self-Hatred, Team as Family, incarceration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaOto/pseuds/GretaOto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliot loses focus on the job, and everything falls to pieces. His team comes to the rescue. Eliot’s not used to having people who want to rescue him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Easily Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta [aweekofsaturdays,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aweekofsaturdays)! She is my first beta and this story is miles better thanks to her insightful and encouraging comments and suggestions. All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> TW: for brief, vague mention of past child abuse. Otherwise canon-typical level of violence.

The cell door opens with a harsh squeal. 

Eliot stumbles in, off-balance from the hard shove between his shoulder blades and from several hard blows to his skull. His hands are bound roughly behind his back, zip ties wrenched tight and unforgiving, and he loses his footing, comes down hard on his knees on the concrete floor. Only the iron frame of the single, narrow cot, which jams hard into his side with the force of his fall, prevents him from crashing all the way to the floor. He drags in a ragged breath, air knocked from his lungs. 

A second guard carries an unconscious Parker in after him and dumps her carelessly on the cot, while he struggles to breathe past what feels like two cracked ribs.

The door slams shut, loud in the sudden silence. There are other prisoners here, Eliot knows. He saw their faces as he staggered past, some curious, some threatening, most just bored. Everyone was watching, waiting, to see what happens next, for the guards to leave, for anything to break the monotony and the despair.

“You. If you want your hands back, come over to the bars and don’t try anything funny.” The first guard’s voice is cold, impatient beneath his Texas twang. He wants to get back to his soft office, his warm coffee, his football game on the contraband television. In another life, Eliot might have gotten beers with this man, or played with him on a neighborhood softball team.

But this is not another life. This is now, and now is not so friendly.

Eliot knows he has one shot. One opportunity to get out. Even half-unconscious, his brain still registers details: escape routes, staffing levels, possible weapons. He could reach through the bars, get a hold of the man’s nightstick, pepper spray, his throat. Disarm him, get out, get away. The second guard has already walked away, footsteps echoing loud down the hallway. It would be painful, but he could do it. Has done it, and in worse condition.

But.

Parker.

With a pained grunt, Eliot wrenches himself to his feet. He staggers over to the door and turns his back, hands clenching the bars, wrists offered in submission. Snip-clip, one-two, and sensation races back into his fingers. Agony, like tiny lightning bolts, enough to temporarily distract from the throbbing in his side. He winces, rubbing at his wrists and chafing his hands until the sharp pain begins to recede, leaving behind the heavy thud of deep bruises and cracked bones.

His vision swims, then clears, as he drops to a crouch beside Parker’s still, pale form. Despite his worry, his hands are steady as he gently brushes a few stray blond strands from her face. He slides his fingers down to rest against the juncture of her neck and jaw.

Her pulse is steady, strong, and a sigh of relief escapes his throat before he can stop it.

He slumps down against the edge of the cot, one hand resting lightly on her forearm, fingers wrapped loosely around her wrist, just tight enough to feel the rhythmic _one-two, one-two_ of her heartbeat.

Around them, the background noise from the other cells resumes and rises. Voices talking, arguing. The clank of metal on metal. The occasional grunt or thud. All the sounds of life, compressed inside small concrete boxes.

Eliot processes it automatically, but no immediate threats register so he tunes it out to concentrate on what really matters. He focuses on the rise and fall of Parker’s chest, counts her breaths, breathes with them, and waits for her to wake. He struggles to stay awake himself, reminds himself that he shouldn’t sleep with a concussion; he’s had enough of them to know. Exhaustion and injuries tug relentlessly, sapping his strength, but he can’t sleep until Parker wakes. 

*

It was supposed to be an easy job, that’s the worst part. Simple recon, info-gathering on their newest mark. The guy was a South Texas oil baron, exploiting immigrant laborers from just across the border, ensuring they were too scared of deportation (or worse) to raise a fuss. He was all kinds of shady, borderline brutal to his employees, but nothing they hadn’t handled before. To be honest, Eliot had thought the entire situation sounded like the plot from an old Western movie. (Their client was one of the workers; after they agreed to take the job and she left, Hardison had insisted on watching _The Man From Laramie_. Eliot grins briefly in spite of himself, recalling it; he never would have guessed that such a big sci-fi nerd would have a thing for spaghetti Westerns.) 

They had left Hardison in Lucille, as usual, grumbling about the heat and the bugs and the lack of a proper internet connection in ‘this godforsaken dust hole’ (also as usual). Parker had been scaling the main building, an easy climb to the second story office window. Eliot was on the ground, supposed to be watching the perimeter, but he had allowed himself a brief minute to spot Parker as she climbed, and yes, to admire her and her feline grace and skill. After all, it was Sunday morning in the South – everyone would be at church, singing the same dusty songs and hearing the same dusty sermon.

And that was all it took. A minute of inattention, of carelessness, and Eliot had let his team – his friends – down.

The first indication that something was amiss had been a resounding echo, like a great church bell, followed instantly by a blinding flash as his world tilted. A hollow pipe to the back of his skull; it was a very distinctive echo. It had knocked him off balance, just enough, and then what felt like half the town’s police force had swarmed him with overwhelming and unrelenting force. He took out three or four men, maybe more, but the numbers were just too great for even him. Fists and boots, batons and pipes, and the element of surprise all combined to bring him to the ground. He tried to warn Hardison over the coms, but his breath was stolen and his words cut off as he impacted the earth.

From the ground, with one boot heavy on his neck and three other bodies pinning his down, he had had to watch as faces appeared in the office window just in time to catch Parker as she crested the wall. And then had to keep watching, utterly helpless, as they threw her from that same window to land motionless, 20 feet below.

Eliot lost his earpiece somewhere in the fighting, knocked loose by someone’s fists, or the pipe, or one of several police batons. He’s not exactly sure when, his attention was understandably elsewhere, but the lack of knowing still bothers him. Parker’s was confiscated when they searched her. (Eliot had growled the entire time, shaking with rage that they dared put their hands all over her, she doesn’t like to be _touched_ , not by strangers, not there, not like that.) Eliot is cut off from the rest of his team, and he feels it keenly, like a missing limb.

Without their coms Eliot doesn’t know if Hardison was caught unawares as well, or if his angry yelling alerted him in time. Doesn’t know if he’s out there, looking for a way in, a way to get them free. Doesn’t know if he’s stuck in another cell down the line, awake or unconscious, bruised and hurting. 

Eliot doesn’t like to see the rest of his team hurt; _he’s_ the hitter, the one who gets hit. The icepacks in their freezer have _his_ name on them. Not literally, but it’s understood. It’s not that he enjoys the pain, the way the aches stick around for days, limiting his movement, reminding him with every twitch and breath that he’s living life on the edge. But he _is_ used to it, can block it out. He’s been told he has an abnormally high tolerance to pain. Eliot’s not so sure about that. It’s nothing genetic, nothing physical. His nerves transmit at the same frequency as everyone else’s. It’s training, repetition. You get hit enough, for long enough, and eventually you learn to compartmentalize the pain, to shove it away and ignore it. 

Eliot learned that lesson early and often, until it became second nature.

And now, it’s all he has to offer. He’s not smart, not like Hardison. Not fearless and talented like Parker. He’s no chameleon, could never do what Sophie does. He can’t keep all the chess pieces in his head like Nate, seeing solutions that shouldn’t exist but do. But he can do this: he can offer his body as a shield and a weapon so that they can do the jobs that count. He’s the expendable one; he accepted this years ago.

*

Minutes later, or hours, or maybe days (it feels like years, it’s probably just minutes), Parker finally stirs. She always wakes up grumpy, but doubly so when injured. Eliot doesn’t mind. He knows her growls aren’t meant for him, so he helps her up to a seated position, gently supporting her around her forming bruises, places the thin pillow behind her so that she can lean back against the concrete walls.

They talk quietly, assess their injuries. It’s clear that Parker also has a concussion; she has trouble focusing for long on anything, and Eliot rides waves of dizziness that rise up out of nowhere and threaten to sweep him off his feet. They both have an assortment of colorful bruises, probably a few hairline fractures but nothing that won’t bear weight in an emergency. Parker’s neck is stiff and sore from her fall, but fortunately that’s all. (Eliot will never be able forget the sound of her body hitting the ground.) 

They try to find a way out, but it’s hard to properly assess much of the facility in their state, and their cell is at the end of a long, noisy hallway. Eliot was too focused on Parker to observe much useful information on his way in. 

And so they slip into silence, unable to do more in their present state, and let the day elapse.

*

Parker is curled into an impossibly tight ball on their cot, face buried in her knees, arms woven tightly around her shins. She rocks back and forth, slowly, subtly. Eliot watches from the far corner, one eye on his friend, the other on the door. Occasionally her murmurs rise to audible levels.

“…. Too slow, you were too slow, and now you’re caught. Caught like a bird in a net. They weighed you down, slowed you down. Knew it would happen. Can’t let people get too close, it’s not safe. Too slow…”

Finally, Eliot can’t listen to her any longer, watch her, let her tear herself apart. _What would Hardison do?_ he wonders, wishing the other man were there. Not there with them, not injured and trapped. But there in his ear, watching from afar like an omnipresent deity, whispering advice and sarcastic commentary even while opening doors and accomplishing the impossible with the deftest stroke of his fingers. Hardison knows what do to with feelings and Eliot is no good with them. But even so, he has his answer.

Carefully, moving slowly to advertise his movements, Eliot crosses the cell and sits down on the thin mattress, an arm’s length from Parker’s trembling form.

“Hey. Parker, c’mere,” he growls uncomfortably. 

After a long pause, she nods, face never leaving the security of her arms.

Eliot inches closer until his shoulder is touching hers. She’s a bundle of sharp angles, elbows and knees poking out defensively like a wounded porcupine. Eliot wraps his arms around her anyway, gently tugging until she unbends slightly and leans against him. She’s still stiff, unresponsive. And then, in a single move, she uncurls and buries her face against his chest, going almost limp in his grasp. Her strong climber’s fingers clutch convulsively at his shirt, which quickly grows damp from the sobs that silently shake her frame.

Eliot has never been one for touching, for hugging, for casual intimacy. It’s been a long time since he’s been this close with someone he’s not actively fighting or fucking. It should feel strange. But it feels _right_ , like this is the one place in the world where he is supposed to be right now, and he would fight anyone who suggested otherwise.

He talks to her, a soothing ramble, keeping his voice low and calming, like he would with a wounded horse. Not that she would appreciate the comparison, but it’s all he has.

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay. Hardison is out there looking for us, Nate and Sophie, they’re looking for us. You’re going to be just fine. I’ve got you, nothing else is going to hurt you. We’re going to get out of here, and soon, but until then, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. ”

It’s unclear how many of his words make it through, but eventually she stops trembling, although she stays mute, stays close.

Eliot knows that if help doesn’t come soon, they will be in a world of pain.

*

But by nightfall, no one has come.

They take turns sleeping, through the night. One sleeps while the other keeps watch; neither one wants to be left undefended, and Eliot’s can’t remember how long you have to be concerned about falling permanently asleep with a concussion. They keep time by the rounds of the guards. One hour, maybe two at a stretch, Eliot can’t tell. His internal clock has been jarred loose. Every time the guards come by, it’s time to switch. He hates waking her, but Parker never complains. Just sets her face, determined, and slowly pushes herself back up to make room for him to stretch out on the cot.

It’s a long night.

During his watches (and most of Parker’s as well), Eliot runs over everything that went wrong in the past 24 hours. Everything _he_ did wrong.

In hindsight, it’s clear that their mark has bought the entire local police force. He’s not sure how Hardison missed that in the background search. Cash probably, or mutual favors, something under the table for sure. There had been no trace in the money trail. Doesn’t matter either way, now. Their predicament isn’t Hardison’s fault.

It’s Eliot’s fault.

It’s Eliot who didn’t do his job. Who wasn’t watching what he should have been, and let his eyes stray to something (some _one_ ) that wasn’t his to watch. Eliot is the one who failed. Failed his job, failed his team, failed his friends, his family, people who trust him.

Eliot knows he doesn’t deserve their trust. He’s not a good person. People like him don’t deserve people like Parker, so graceful and skilled, and yes a little crazy, but brilliant and beautiful and full of life. People like him don’t deserve people like Hardison, the sweetest, maddest, nerdiest genius he could ever hope to know. All Eliot’s good for is breaking people. So it was only a matter of time until he broke them as well.

Did the cops know who they were facing, when they took down Eliot? Or did they just get lucky, numbers taking the place of skill and confidence? It doesn’t matter. If he had been paying attention, he would have seen them. Probably could have taken them on. Certainly could have taken down more of them. 

Could have warned Parker.

Could have made sure Hardison was out safe.

Eliot doesn’t care about his own bruises. He doesn’t hate the cold, looming walls for his own sake. Objectively, he’s been in much worse. 

He cares because they hurt Parker. Because she was in her element, and then there was a face in the window, and an uncontrolled fall, and she woke up in her worst nightmare: trapped. And he could have, _should have_ stopped it.

*

It is very late, or perhaps very early. Eliot wakes suddenly, rolling from barely asleep to fully alert as a commotion breaks the deep quiet. 

Rolling off the cot, Eliot joins Parker in peering between the bars of their cell. They can just barely see two men in FBI jackets strolling confidently down the corridor towards them, guided by one guard and trailed by at least two more. 

Hardison paces ahead of Nate, his jerky steps and searching eyes clearly telegraphing the worry hidden beneath his cool façade. Eliot’s own worry fades, just a little bit. Hardison is fine, he got away. Maybe Eliot didn’t completely screw everything up after all.

He’s still not used to people coming to rescue him though. People _wanting_ to rescue him.

Eliot pulls back from the bars as voices become audible in the hallway.

“It’s a little fast for a transfer, isn’t it?” one guard asks. “I mean, our system’s not even done processing them yet.”

“Of course not,” Nate answers. His tone is less of the used-car-salesman he often puts on for cons, and more of the bored superior officer, talking to someone well beneath his pay grade. Supercilious, and deadly if crossed. “I had my agent set a flag on these two, reroute any and all information on them directly to us. We’ve been chasing them for nearly three years, and they’ve always managed to elude us.”

Eliot turns to Parker and whispers, rapidly, over the approaching footsteps. “We can’t afford to blow their cover. If it’s easier for you, pretend to still be unconscious and I’ll carry you out of here.”

Parker nods, considers for a moment, and then collapses into a boneless heap on the floor. Eliot is concerned at just how convincing it looks, but there is no time for worry as the first guard unlocks the door and steps just inside, taser unholstered.

“Did you find a doctor?” Eliot growls fiercely, voice guttural with a long day’s worth of repressed rage. “She keeps passing out like this, can’t stay awake. Something’s not right.”

“She’s fine,” the guard answers in a bored tone. “Now wake her up. You two are getting transferred. I don’t know exactly what you’ve been flagged for, but you must be in a lot of trouble.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Eliot snarls louder. “She’s in trouble. She won’t wake up.” Hardison enters the room then, his worry palpably sucking all the oxygen from the small space.

“Not my problem, you can drag her out for all I care.” 

The guard turns around to Nate, who is standing in the open doorway. “Better watch this one, he’s pretty feral.” Eliot takes the opportunity to mouth _she’s okay_ at Hardison. He normally wouldn’t risk it, but there are no cameras in the cell, just the hallway, and they can’t be seen from this angle. And the other man’s worry is suffocating him. Hardison dips his head minutely, blinking once, slowly, in acknowledgement and relief.

The first guard turns back to Eliot, beckoning guards two and three into the small space. They have to shove past Nate, who stands firm, arms folded, observing dispassionately.

“You may be getting transferred, but don’t even think of trying anything funny or making a run for it,” the first guard warns. The other two watch Eliot carefully, hoping for the slightest twitch, the least excuse to take him down, to do more damage; one holds a taser, the other a baton. Guard number one bends down and shackles Eliot’s feet together with a short length of chain, then stands. Eliot tests the shackles carefully. He can take shorts steps without tripping, but running would be out of the question. It is galling to have to submit to these men when he knows he could take the three of them, even aching and dizzy.

But he doesn’t have to take them, Eliot reminds himself. His team has come for him, and Eliot is once again rendered breathless, heart aching, knowing that he has a team, people he can trust even as they, for some unfathomable reason, trust him.

“Now pick her up, or I’ll drag her myself. I want you out of my jail so I can get back to sleep. It’s too early for this shit.”

Eliot bends down and gently lifts up Parker’s limp form, one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders. Her head and arms dangle bonelessly. Hardison steps forward and tilts her head so that it is supported firmly on Eliot’s shoulder. One of the guards gives him a strange look.

“That was asking for more head trauma,” he snaps, “and I don’t need to deal with the paperwork if she dies.”

They make an awkward parade, hampered by Eliot’s ankle cuffs, past the gauntlet of the other inmates and out to the waiting van. Eliot barely has enough time to set Parker gently on one of the benches before a guard shoves him, hard. His shins slam into the tailgate and Eliot falls with a bitten-off groan to the bare floor of the van. His ribs loudly protest the extra abuse.

“There will be no more of that,” Nate says, calm as a viper. “This man is in my custody now.”

Hardison handcuffs Parker’s arm to the bench below her, and then moves to secure Eliot onto the other bench, roughly picking him off the floor and shoving him over toward the other bench. Two waiting cuffs stretch his arms uselessly wide, and he drops his head forward in defeat as Hardison jumps back out to stand, arms crossed, next to Nate.

“Don’t forget to sign the transfer papers,” the guard drawls sarcastically, shoving a clipboard at the pair.

Nate scratches an angry signature where indicated, vicious slashes of the pen, as if it can cut, as if the paper can bleed. He calmly stares the guard in the eye the entire time.

“Let’s go, agent,” Nate bites out. And then he turns and walks towards the driver seat. Hardison slams the back doors, then mirrors him on the other side. No excess words, no backwards looks. Just take the prisoners and go.

As soon as the vehicle begins to move, Sophie emerges from a dark corner and flips open Parker’s handcuff – one of her stage props, judging by the quick-release latch. She helps Parker to a sitting position and drops a motherly kiss on her head. Then she quickly moves to take care of Eliot’s bindings. 

Eliot rubs his wrists briefly, then stares down at his ankles and stomps one foot lightly. The chains of his manacles – not stage ones, these – rattle loudly in the empty back of the van.

“You don’t happen to have a key for these, do you, Sophie?” he asks tiredly.

“No, I’m afraid not. We’ll have to wait until we get back to the safe house and find something to cut them off with.” Her face and voice are painted with apology.

Parker slides wordlessly to the floor in front of Eliot. “Sophie. Bobby pin,” is all she says, holding one hand out expectantly. Sophie quickly tugs one loose, and a single curl unravels to fall unheeded across her face. Exhausted though she is, Parker’s clever fingers make quick work of Eliot’s fetters. She sways with the motion of the van as she works, and once Eliot’s feet are free she doesn’t bother to stand, just drops her head to rest against his knee.

As soon as the car is safely out of sight of the jail, Nate pulls off to the side of the road. He pauses long enough for Hardison to slip from the front seat and race around to open one back door. He hops in and taps Sophie on the shoulder and she nods, quietly exchanges places with him, goes up front to sit with Nate.

Eliot slumps back against the wall as the van begins to move again, too tired to care about the hard metal against his aching skull. He doesn’t even flinch when Hardison scoops up Parker and sits down next to him, presses tight against his side although there is plenty of room to spare on the bench. Parker slumps against Hardison’s chest and he wraps his arms tightly around her. She drapes her legs across Eliot’s lap, and he reaches out and clasps one hand around her knee. One of her hands settles on top of his.

The monotonous rumble of rubber on asphalt, the gentle murmur of Nate and Sophie’s conversation, the warmth of safety and family settle like a blanket over the back of the van.

They’re not okay. Eliot is pretty sure both he and Parker could use a CAT scan, and he would bet real money that his ribs are cracked, not bruised. They’ll both be moving slowly for quite a while.

But they _will_ be okay, because they’re all together again. Parker is asleep already, held tight in the safest place she knows. And for once, Eliot allows himself to give in as well. He slips sideways, until his head is resting on Hardison’s surprisingly not-bony shoulder. Hardison pulls one arm from around Parker and drapes it across Eliot’s shoulders, pulling him closer into their circle. Eliot doesn’t push him away, doesn’t want to even if he did have the energy (he never wants to push them away; he has to, for their sake). 

Eliot can’t sleep yet. They’re not home, not out of the woods. But he can finally rest, knowing that everyone he cares about is safe once more.


End file.
